


What Is There To Remember Now?

by GodlingCaptainChristina



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 18:04:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7474374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodlingCaptainChristina/pseuds/GodlingCaptainChristina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This bench isn't special. Not in any real kind of way, but he still finds himself sitting here everyday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is There To Remember Now?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alluringwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alluringwaters/gifts).



> Bea, I wrote this for you because I want you to have nice things and feel special, but I'm also very bad at writing long things quickly. Rest assured that something less fluffy is in store for you (fairly) soon. (I've started writing it and am trying not to cry with what I'm planning to do to them in all the various universes in my head).   
> I might end up expanding this later, but I don't know.

He’d been waiting for so long already. It was, at once, only an hour, but also a lifetime, a dozen lifetimes. There was so much that he wanted to say, but until the someone he was waiting for arrived, he couldn’t say anything. 

The weirdest part was that he didn’t even remember who he was waiting for, what he wanted to say. It tickled at the back of his mind, ready to attack, but hidden all the same. All he knew was that this bench was somehow significant to their reunion. 

_‘In memory of the brave souls lost here.’_ the bench’s plaque read. 

Images rose unbidden of bodies strewn across a barricade, of blood puddling on the stairs, of a brave man trying to protect him from oncoming bullets. 

But that was ridiculous. He didn’t even know what the plaque was dedicated to. The only thing he knew about it was that the old owner of the Musain knew the great-great granddaughter of the original owner, that something terrible happened here in the 19th century, that they’d wanted to commemorate something. 

He never could remember what, though he’s sure he’s been told before. 

Like he said, it’s ridiculous. 

It’s just a bench. There isn’t any reason for him to only ever sit _here_ with his morning coffee. There’s no reason for him to look for a paint-streaked person, or hope that, somehow, they’re searching for him, too.


End file.
